


homesick

by orphan_account



Category: Panic! at the Disco
Genre: Angsty Schmoop, Bottom Brendon, Brendon Is An Idiot, Drunken Confessions, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Exes, Homesickness, M/M, Non-Explicit Sex, but a cute idiot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-19
Updated: 2015-11-19
Packaged: 2018-05-02 10:58:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5245757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Brendon misses home. Or, maybe he just misses Ryan.</p>
            </blockquote>





	homesick

I'm homesick.

My skin crawls with the familiar feeling of wanting to be elsewhere; the sick desire that hangs in my stomach and makes me sink into loneliness like a rock in the ocean, the remembering of sickly-sweet lullabies from once before, hurtling me into the depths of remembering who I am and who I was.

It's before the show tonight that it returns again; Spencer's sitting in the back of the dressing room, legs resting on the table as Dallon adjusts his stage makeup, dusting the foundation across his cheekbones so the lights won't gleam off his face from sweat; I turn to him, and he gives me a shaky, sympathetic grin. He knows the look that I know transcends across my face, and I swallow as my eyes glide over the way Dallon busies his slender hands across his cheeks, holding his face up. I like Dallon - Dallon likes me too.. but he's not Ryan.

Sometimes I wonder if I'm really homesick for home; for Nevada sands and Mormon ties, for family smiles and the four walls of my family home. And then I remember - there's nothing left there. My family are gone and the home is in debris; the Mormon ties are burnt and the sands have all blown over - so what am so lonely for? What do I desire, what am I so desperate to return to? Him. He's my Nevada; my Summerlin, my Las Vegas, my Reno. He's the melodies that pound behind my forehead, the lyrics buzzing behind my lips. He's the flow of my hands against the instruments - he is every much a part of me as my fingertips and my vocal chords. He's my other half, my sun; I am his moon, and I would gladly, with him, eclipse.

But he's gone.

My fingertips linger against the carving in the dressing room table. "B + R Forever", it promises. It fucking lies; I blink three times, snapping back tears. My long eyelashes clump with shitty mascara that Dallon promises will make my eyes pop, but they just make my eyelashes stick, the treacle-thick black melding my lashes together. 

We do okay, like usual; I've drunk three bottles of beer and I am still uncomfortably sober as the homesickness twines in my stomach, coling my belly uncomfortably with nerves. Like always, I belt out his lyrics; when Dallon quirks an eyebrow at me - bass slung from one bare shoulder, body soaked in sweat, dishevelled hair and a dopey grin from a high that's not from the stage - I gulp and nod. My throat constricts as I speak; my chest aches and I can hear that I'm panting a little. Fuck the fans for loving this song so much - I can't deal with the baggage later, the homesickness, the self-hatred for not being enough for the man I loved more than the stage, more than myself.  
**"This one's called Northern Downpour."** I say, and it feels like my body isn't even mine; for a second I swear I'm dissociating, fleeing from my demons and my problems like always. I adjust my knuckles around the mic stand, my fists white as I hear the opening strums, and my voice comes out as an embarrassing, pre-pubescent squeak. It quakes and shudders as I sing along, voice stumbling and slurring on words that I'll blame on the not-quite-strong-enough beer later. My fingertips shudder, and I feel my throat constricting as I remember him and his honey eyes and sharp fingers and silver tongue and it's all too much.

We finish with his song, before ducking out of the venue and melding with the shadows of the night like we're fucking Batman, Robin and Batgirl - I'd like to call myself Batman but lately I've been feeling far too much like the Joker, not quite in my own head, too much of me being blue to get over it. We walk to the bus; as I clamber inside, they follow me.  
Dallon confronts me with fire in his icicle eyes and his mouth set into a scowl; I'm nursing Beer Number 5 - or maybe 6, I've lost count - and everything is tingled with little remorse and a lot of love. Maybe I do love him. Maybe I just love the thought of him.  
His lips curl when he talks about him; he looks beautiful when he's jealous, which sounds shallow, but he's just like that, you know? His lips curl in the most exquisite way, lightly bitten from his own teeth and some whore's, probably, but he's still beautiful. He's still mine. Even if I miss him more than anything, Dallon is mine and always will be; I might sound like a selfish fucker for saying so, but it's true. I love him, I guess. He loves me; he reminds me every night. I ignore him; tell him to fuck off, that I need space. He spits out something toxic that I ignore. Our relationship was never conventional; one fight isn't going to break us. So he does; in a flash of teeth and icicle eyes, he leaves, and I don't start breathing until I hear the heavy slam of the door; then, I exhale, long and deep, letting my eyelids flicker.  
My lashes still stick together as they close and I hold my cellphone to my chest, my brain in a flurry of _yesnomaybepossiblynoyesyesyes_ , the drunked thoughts overcoming any sober ones as I press the home button.  
I'm blinded by the bright light from the miniature sun inside the screen; I key in my passcode, getting it wrong four out of five times, before checking my texts. Hayley from Paramore wants to hang out. Fat chance. Pete from Fall Out Boy - the Pete, of course - wants to know how I'm holding up. Badly, of course. Like always. A few angry texts from Sarah, demanding me to text her back because she's worried. She's a groupie whore, really; she doesn't care about the band, or me, not truthfully. She probably just wants my dick. I roll my eyes, ignoring the PR texts about my latest fuck-up. I decide against the stupid thoughts whispering in my ears to call him, hear his voice, talk to him, tell him I love him.

Instead, I text Sarah; she's on the other bus, but I guess she'll do. She appears after a quick text - im bored wnna cme over?? - but she doesn't hold her usual soft, seductive smirk. Her lips are downturned; her eyes stormy, free of makeup - no smoky eyeshadow or inch-thick eyeliner like usual; her face is clean. It makes her look vulnerable, especially accompanied with the ensemble of overly domestic pajamas she's wearing - a pair of pajama pants decorated with ducklings and mice, paired with an undershirt with our band's name on it. She sits beside my bed, but she doesn't touch me; instead she just stares, and it's strangely intimate and terrifying and electrifying all at once.  
Her lips part. She doesn't speak. When she does it's strangely terrifying, electric; her voice is hollow just like her stare, and there I realize how incorrect all my assumptions about Sarah Orzechowski are. She is not a siren but rather a frightened girl, two years my junior, hiding behind bitten lips and seductive stares and soft hands lingering against my skin. She is small and weak and terrified, and yet. And yet, she still breathes. **"You should call him."** She croons, **"You haven't been yourself recently."**  
She's right; I am never myself. I am never what I like, however desperately I try to be. My skin isn't the right one for my body; it stings, fitting over my bones just enough to itch, but I can't pull it off, and it sticks, melding to me like the mascara on my eyelashes; like my skin, it's waterproof, so no matter how hard I cry, it stays and it sticks, making a big mess and I just sob into Sarah's neck. Her hands are small, and gentle; her short fingernails brush against my scalp, soothing my tears as she runs them through my slightly greasy hair. I should shower. If I can be bothered. She hums something vaguely Polish in my ear; a croaky croon of a song, motherly and caring - the kind of thing her mother might've sung. I've never met her mother. I don't care for her mother already; I care for her far too much. I shouldn't get attached, but she's like a younger sister. A younger sister I've slept with, but a younger sister all the same.

 

She leaves ten minutes after I stop crying; she kisses my forehead before she leaves, however, and it fills me with warmth. It's definitely not a romantic feeling, however; it's.. a strange rush that's a mixture of affection and admiration for the fragile porcelain doll of a woman, and suddenly I realize I'm sober again. I groan, but decide against getting up to grab another beer. Instead, I fumble for my water bottle underneath my bunk.  
Maybe then I'll get some Tylenol, a Panadol, some kind of medication to stop my head from buzzing. I just drink water instead; it spills from my mouth and pours down my chin but I don't care; I feel like I haven't had something to drink for centuries; my throat is parched and my lips feel chapped. It feels like crying has taken all the moisture out of my system. I should stop.

I call him then, after that; I close my eyes and tilt my head back as the dial tone hums in my ears.

Once...

Twice..

**"Hello?"**

Him.

His voice.

Him.

My voice quakes dangerously as I try to respond. It almost feels like too much. We were never official, but at the same time there was never "it's not you, it's me", a "it's over" or a "i'm sorry". We just.. drifted apart. He wanted me to move on; to be with girls like Sarah, with long fingernails and pretty painted lips, dressed in dresses three sizes too short. But I couldn't ever love a girl like that; I haven't had a girlfriend for years, let alone fallen in love with one. Girls were.. too unfamiliar. They're gentle porcelain people, whereas Ryan was - is - a shoulder to lean on. A foundation. My rock. Someone to count on. I've been fucked up too often to count on other people; I've started counting wishes instead. Maybe then I can get him back.

 **"Hi."** I reply after an eon of silence. My voice sounds trembly and despite all the water turning me watery seasick, I feel parched; my voice cracks like a step in a creaky house - a bit like the way the stairs in the apartment we shared.. a house I can't bear to look at.

  
**"Brendon."** He practically gasps my name, and I feel my heart break a little. He sounds so sad and broken; he's scared as hell and I wish I could pull my arms around him through the crackles of the phone echo and pull him close; tug my fingers through his hair and rest my nose into his neck, singing the song he wrote for me. For us. That's what we used to do, when he got like this; I'd hold him and sing to him; he'd laugh through his tears and say something self-deprecating about there being a good reason I was the lead singer; and then I'd hit him, tell him he was so much better than he thought. I did. I don't anymore. 

**"In the flesh,"** I sound more amused than I actually am. **"Well, in the voice, at least."** My voice trips a little, like someone has pulled the metaphorical carpet out from underneath my sock-clad feet; I give my toes a little wiggle, watching as they dance, clothed in white from my socks like little sheet ghosts. That'd make him laugh, if he was here. If. He isn't, of course, so I don't laugh.

 **"How've you been? Met anyone new?"** He moves from subject to subject just as fast as he moved out of my heart. I know that he knows about Dallon; but we all know he's better off thinking I'm fine. Dallon and I aren't conventional. I don't - I can't - love him the way I still love George Ryan Ross III. But I could try, at least. It might work. Probably won't. Sarah is an entire new kettle of fish; we aren't a thing. I'm pretty sure she has a girlfriend anyway; someone who knows her unconventional lifestyle and isn't bothered by the thought of her leaving for months on end. Maybe Sarah is more faithful than she leads on. Maybe Sarah is a better girlfriend. Maybe I should pine after her instead.

"There's Dallon, but I don't know if you'd call us boyfriends." I hope he can hear my frown through the crackling receiver, hear how much I wish I was with him and not Dallon. Dallon is caring and sweet and kind and hot - God, he's so hot - but he's just.. He's not Ryan.

 **"That's good."** I can just tell from the way he sounds unaffected that he has found someone new. Maybe some other motherfucker like him who wears paisley shirts and scarves and goes to his slam poetry things and can sit still for more than three seconds. Maybe someone who wears glasses all the time, with an intellectual brain and too much reason. Or maybe he's with a girl; maybe a pretty thing like Sarah - far too young and pretty for him, with her head too far in the clouds to realize he's no good for her. Maybe they met in a bar; his hand reaching brand new heights sliding up her skirt, her making little sounds. Them getting kicked out of the bar. Going home together. Loving each other. The way he promised he'd love me.

 

It's so silent until Ryan chirps out the time and claims to be heading to bed. I nod. He sighs. I hang up first. I get another beer. I drink it all.

Dallon knocks on my door quietly. His ocean eyes are downcast, his bottom lip between his teeth as he stares at my sheet ghost toes and gulps. I just look at him, and I don't say a word; it's almost telepathic, really, as he looks up, meets my eyes and moves to meet my body; our lips intersect and his hands thread into my hair as we kiss.  
He fits himself into between my knees, torso against mine, humming a eureka against my lips as he holds me close. We break apart with a heaving mutual inhale, his face pressed against my neck - one of my own hands rests in the scruff of his hair, and the other on my dick; Dallon's a fucking good kisser and I'm a little drunk.. but I actually think I might love him. More than Ryan, even.

  
We are pulling off each other's clothes. We are drinking beer. We are kissing. We are in love.

  
**"I love you."** I whisper, my head softly hued from the beer and my heart thumping like one of Spencer's drums, the blood pounding in my ears like the beats of his drumsticks. My mouth is just above his ear, my lips brushing feather light against his skin; I stare at him worriedly until I notice he is grinning like this is the best thing that's ever happened to him; his eyes are crinkling in the corners, and he's got an earsplitting grin across his face.

  
He's beautiful.

  
He's  In celebration, I get two fingers in my mouth as he goes down on me. It's awesome. I come twice before he pulls off and kisses me hard, pressing me back into the shitty bus bunk mattress and pinning down my wrists to kiss up my stomach, then my chest, proceeding to whisper candid "i love yous" against my flesh, nuzzling his nose into my skin.  
My body curves upwards into his touches, and then he is laughing, calling me affectionate nicknames, and then his lips are on mine once more and I feel like I've gone past heaven and into outer space; my legs lock around his waist, and his hips grind into mine - I'm coming again before I know it, letting out a gaspy moan of his name, one hand knotted tight into the hair at the nape of his neck, the other on the small of his back, tracing shapes and patterns onto his skin. 

He's so perfect. 

  
I vocalize my thoughts, and he laughs softly, before mumbling, **"You're the most perfect person I've ever seen.** " as he nuzzles his nose further into my shoulder. My hands skim against his hair, gently compared to the harshness of before, fingernails branding his scalp with each stroke.  
**"No, you are. You're perfect, and you're mine."** I reply, leaning down to press a kiss to his temple. **"If I'm yours and you're mine, does that make us boyfriends?"**    
He sounds incredibly hopeful, and I slowly nod. **"I'd expect nothing less, babe."**

 

I'm not homesick anymore.

I'm homesick.

My skin crawls with the familiar feeling of wanting to be elsewhere; the sick desire that hangs in my stomach and makes me sink into loneliness like a rock in the ocean, the remembering of sickly-sweet lullabies from once before, hurtling me into the depths of remembering who I am and who I was.

It's before the show tonight that it returns again; Spencer's sitting in the back of the dressing room, legs resting on the table as Dallon adjusts his stage makeup, dusting the foundation across his cheekbones so the lights won't gleam off his face from sweat; I turn to him, and he gives me a shaky, sympathetic grin. He knows the look that I know transcends across my face, and I swallow as my eyes glide over the way Dallon busies his slender hands across his cheeks, holding his face up. I like Dallon - Dallon likes me too.. but he's not Ryan.

Sometimes I wonder if I'm really homesick for home; for Nevada sands and Mormon ties, for family smiles and the four walls of my family home. And then I remember - there's nothing left there. My family are gone and the home is in debris; the Mormon ties are burnt and the sands have all blown over - so what am so lonely for? What do I desire, what am I so desperate to return to?

Him.

He's my Nevada; my Summerlin, my Las Vegas, my Reno. He's the melodies that pound behind my forehead, the lyrics buzzing behind my lips. He's the flow of my hands against the instruments - he is every much a part of me as my fingertips and my vocal chords. He's my other half, my sun; I am his moon, and I would gladly, with him, eclipse.

But he's gone.

My fingertips linger against the carving in the dressing room table.  _"B + R Forever"_ , it promises. It fucking lies; I blink three times, snapping back tears. My long eyelashes clump with shitty mascara that Dallon promises will make my eyes pop, but they just make my eyelashes stick, the treacle-thick black melding my lashes together.

We do okay, like usual; I've drunk three bottles of beer and I am still uncomfortably sober as the homesickness twines in my stomach, coling my belly uncomfortably with nerves. Like always, I belt out his lyrics; when Dallon quirks an eyebrow at me - bass slung from one bare shoulder, body soaked in sweat, dishevelled hair and a dopey grin from a high that's not from the stage - I gulp and nod. My throat constricts as I speak; my chest aches and I can hear that I'm panting a little. Fuck the fans for loving this song so much - I can't deal with the baggage later, the homesickness, the self-hatred for not being enough for the man I loved more than the stage, more than myself.

"This one's called Northern Downpour." I say, and it feels like my body isn't even mine; for a second I swear I'm dissociating, fleeing from my demons and my problems like always.  
I adjust my knuckles around the mic stand, my fists white as I hear the opening strums, and my voice comes out as an embarrassing, pre-pubescent squeak. It quakes and shudders as I sing along, voice stumbling and slurring on words that I'll blame on the not-quite-strong-enough beer later. My fingertips shudder, and I feel my throat constricting as I remember him and his honey eyes and sharp fingers and silver tongue and  _it's all too much._

We finish with his song, before ducking out of the venue and melding with the shadows of the night like we're fucking Batman, Robin and Batgirl - I'd like to call myself Batman but lately I've been feeling far too much like the Joker, not quite in my own head, too much of me being blue to get over it.

We walk to the bus; as I clamber inside, they follow me. Dallon confronts me with fire in his icicle eyes and his mouth set into a scowl; I'm nursing Beer Number 5 - or maybe 6, I've lost count - and everything is tingled with little remorse and a lot of love. Maybe I do love him. Maybe I just love the thought of him.

His lips curl when he talks about him; he looks beautiful when he's jealous, which sounds shallow, but he's just like that, you know? His lips curl in the most exquisite way, lightly bitten from his own teeth and some whore's, probably, but he's still beautiful. He's still  _mine._ Even if I miss him more than anything, Dallon is mine and always will be; I might sound like a selfish fucker for saying so, but it's true. I love him, I guess. He loves me; he reminds me every night.

I ignore him; tell him to fuck off, that I need space. He spits out something toxic that I ignore. Our relationship was never conventional; one fight isn't going to break us.

So he does; in a flash of teeth and icicle eyes, he leaves, and I don't start breathing until I hear the heavy slam of the door; then, I exhale, long and deep, letting my eyelids flicker. My lashes still stick together as they close and I hold my cellphone to my chest, my brain in a flurry of  _yesnomaybepossiblynoyesyesyes_ , the drunked thoughts overcoming any sober ones as I press the home button. I'm blinded by the bright light from the miniature sun inside the screen; I key in my passcode, getting it wrong four out of five times, before checking my texts. Hayley from Paramore wants to hang out. Fat chance. Pete from Fall Out Boy -  _the_ Pete, of course - wants to know how I'm holding up. Badly, of course. Like always. A few angry texts from Sarah, demanding me to text her back because she's worried. She's a groupie whore, really; she doesn't care about the band, or me, not truthfully. She probably just wants my dick. I roll my eyes, ignoring the PR texts about my latest fuck-up.

I decide against the stupid thoughts whispering in my ears to call him, hear his voice, talk to him, tell him I love him. Instead, I text Sarah; she's on the other bus, but I guess she'll do.

She appears after a quick text -  _im bored wnna cme over??_ \- but she doesn't hold her usual soft, seductive smirk. Her lips are downturned; her eyes stormy, free of makeup - no smoky eyeshadow or inch-thick eyeliner like usual; her face is clean. It makes her look vulnerable, especially accompanied with the ensemble of overly domestic pajamas she's wearing - a pair of pajama pants decorated with ducklings and mice, paired with an undershirt with our band's name on it. She sits beside my bed, but she doesn't touch me; instead she just stares, and it's strangely intimate and terrifying and electrifying all at once. Her lips part. She doesn't speak.

When she does it's strangely terrifying, electric; her voice is hollow just like her stare, and there I realize how incorrect all my assumptions about Sarah Orzechowski are. She is not a siren but rather a frightened girl, two years my junior, hiding behind bitten lips and seductive stares and soft hands lingering against my skin. She is small and weak and terrified, and yet. And yet, she still breathes.

"You should call him." She croons, "You haven't been yourself recently."   
She's right; I am never myself. I am never what I like, however desperately I try to be. My skin isn't the right one for my body; it stings, fitting over my bones just enough to itch, but I can't pull it off, and it sticks, melding to me like the mascara on my eyelashes; like my skin, it's waterproof, so no matter how hard I cry, it stays and it sticks, making a big mess and I just sob into Sarah's neck.

Her hands are small, and gentle; her short fingernails brush against my scalp, soothing my tears as she runs them through my slightly greasy hair. I should shower. If I can be bothered. She hums something vaguely Polish in my ear; a croaky croon of a song, motherly and caring - the kind of thing her mother might've sung. I've never met her mother. I don't care for her mother already; I care for her far too much. I shouldn't get attached, but she's like a younger sister.  _A younger sister I've slept with, but a younger sister all the same._

She leaves ten minutes after I stop crying; she kisses my forehead before she leaves, however, and it fills me with warmth. It's definitely not a romantic feeling, however; it's.. a strange rush that's a mixture of affection and admiration for the fragile porcelain doll of a woman, and suddenly I realize I'm sober again. I groan, but decide against getting up to grab another beer. Instead, I fumble for my water bottle underneath my bunk. Maybe then I'll get some Tylenol, a Panadol, some kind of medication to stop my head from buzzing.

I just drink water instead; it spills from my mouth and pours down my chin but I don't care; I feel like I haven't had something to drink for centuries; my throat is parched and my lips feel chapped. It feels like crying has taken all the moisture out of my system. I should stop.

I call him then, after that; I close my eyes and tilt my head back as the dial tone hums in my ears.  _Once... Twice.._

"Hello?"

Him.

His voice.

_Him._

My voice quakes dangerously as I try to respond. It almost feels like too much. We were never official, but at the same time there was never "it's not you, it's me", a "it's over" or a "i'm sorry". We just.. drifted apart. He wanted me to move on; to be with girls like Sarah, with long fingernails and pretty painted lips, dressed in dresses three sizes too short.  
But I couldn't ever love a girl like that; I haven't had a girlfriend for years, let alone fallen in love with one. Girls were.. too unfamiliar. They're gentle porcelain people, whereas Ryan was -  _is_ \- a shoulder to lean on. A foundation. My rock. Someone to count on. I've been fucked up too often to count on other people; I've started counting wishes instead. Maybe then I can get him back.

"Hi." I reply after an eon of silence. My voice sounds trembly and despite all the water turning me watery seasick, I feel parched; my voice cracks like a step in a creaky house - a bit like the way the stairs in the apartment we shared.. a house I can't bear to look at.

"Brendon." He practically gasps my name, and I feel my heart break a little. He sounds so sad and broken; he's scared as hell and I wish I could pull my arms around him through the crackles of the phone echo and pull him close; tug my fingers through his hair and rest my nose into his neck, singing the song he wrote for me. For us. That's what we used to do, when he got like this; I'd hold him and sing to him; he'd laugh through his tears and say something self-deprecating about there being a good reason I was the lead singer; and then I'd hit him, tell him he was so much better than he thought. I did. I don't anymore.

"In the flesh," I sound more amused than I actually am. "Well, in the voice, at least." My voice trips a little, like someone has pulled the metaphorical carpet out from underneath my sock-clad feet; I give my toes a little wiggle, watching as they dance, clothed in white from my socks like little sheet ghosts. That'd make him laugh, if he was here. If. He isn't, of course, so I don't laugh.

"How've you been? Met anyone new?" He moves from subject to subject just as fast as he moved out of my heart. I know that he knows about Dallon; but we all know he's better off thinking I'm fine. Dallon and I aren't conventional. I don't - I can't - love him the way I still love George Ryan Ross III. But I could try, at least. It might work. Probably won't. Sarah is an entire new kettle of fish; we aren't a thing. I'm pretty sure she has a girlfriend anyway; someone who knows her unconventional lifestyle and isn't bothered by the thought of her leaving for months on end. Maybe Sarah is more faithful than she leads on. Maybe Sarah is a better girlfriend. Maybe I should pine after her instead.

"There's Dallon, but I don't know if you'd call us boyfriends." I hope he can hear my frown through the crackling receiver, hear how much I wish I was with him and not Dallon. Dallon is caring and sweet and kind and hot - God, he's  _so_ hot - but he's just.. He's not Ryan.

"That's good." I can just tell from the way he sounds unaffected that he has found someone new. Maybe some other motherfucker like him who wears paisley shirts and scarves and goes to his slam poetry things and can sit still for more than three seconds. Maybe someone who wears glasses all the time, with an intellectual brain and too much reason.   
Or maybe he's with a girl; maybe a pretty thing like Sarah - far too young and pretty for him, with her head too far in the clouds to realize he's no good for her. Maybe they met in a bar; his hand reaching brand new heights sliding up her skirt, her making little sounds. Them getting kicked out of the bar. Going home together. Loving each other. The way he promised he'd love me.

It's so silent until Ryan chirps out the time and claims to be heading to bed. I nod. He sighs. I hang up first. I get another beer. I drink it all.

Dallon knocks on my door quietly. His ocean eyes are downcast, his bottom lip between his teeth as he stares at my sheet ghost toes and gulps.

I just look at him, and I don't say a word; it's almost telepathic, really, as he looks up, meets my eyes and moves to meet my body; our lips intersect and his hands thread into my hair as we kiss. He fits himself into between my knees, torso against mine, humming a eureka against my lips as he holds me close.   
We break apart with a heaving mutual inhale, his face pressed against my neck - one of my own hands rests in the scruff of his hair, and the other on my dick; Dallon's a fucking good kisser and I'm a little drunk.. but I actually think I might love him. More than Ryan, even.

We are pulling off each other's clothes. We are drinking beer. We are kissing. We are in  _love_ _._

"Iloveyou." I whisper, my head softly hued from the beer and my heart thumping like one of Spencer's drums, the blood pounding in my ears like the beats of his drumsticks. My mouth is just above his ear, my lips brushing feather light against his skin; I stare at him worriedly until I notice he is grinning like this is the best thing that's ever happened to him; his eyes are crinkling in the corners, and he's got an earsplitting grin across his face. He's beautiful. He's mine.

In celebration, I get two fingers in my mouth as he goes down on me. It's awesome. I come twice before he pulls off and kisses me hard, pressing me back into the shitty bus bunk mattress and pinning down my wrists to kiss up my stomach, then my chest, proceeding to whisper candid "i love yous" against my flesh, nuzzling his nose into my skin. My body curves upwards into his touches, and then he is laughing, calling me affectionate nicknames, and then his lips are on mine once more and I feel like I've gone past heaven and into outer space; my legs lock around his waist, and his hips grind into mine - I'm coming again before I know it, letting out a gaspy moan of his name, one hand knotted tight into the hair at the nape of his neck, the other on the small of his back, tracing shapes and patterns onto his skin. He's so perfect.

I vocalize my thoughts, and he laughs softly, before mumbling, "You'rethemostperfectpersonI'veeverseen." as he nuzzles his nose further into my shoulder. My hands skim against his hair, gently compared to the harshness of before, fingernails branding his scalp with each stroke.   
"No,  _you_ are. You'reperfect, andyou'remine." I reply, leaning down to press a kiss to his temple.   
"IfI'myoursandyou'remine, doesthatmakeusboyfriends?" He sounds incredibly hopeful, and I slowly nod.   
"I'dexpectnothingless, babe."

I'm not homesick anymore.

**Author's Note:**

> if u want me to write something for you then msg me on tumblr [vegasfights] or wattpad [uptown-punk]  
> i'll do any ship or w/e; just hmu [seriously i need more excuses to write lmao]


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